


If You Say Jump

by fiddleyoumust



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 08:22:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13971099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiddleyoumust/pseuds/fiddleyoumust
Summary: Auston exhales. It’s not that hecan’tmake decisions. Sometimes he knows what he wants. He wants burgers instead of pizza. He prefers Mountain Dew if he’s going to drink a sugary soda. He likes blue jean jackets even if Mitch says they went out of style in the 80s. He’d rather play video games than watch a movie 99% of the time. He wants to go to Freddie’s house and he wants Freddie to fuck him.





	If You Say Jump

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to reginablair for the beta!

The Leafs lose against the Hurricanes and Auston slams his fist into the wall outside the locker room so hard his knuckles scrape and bleed.

“Dude, stop,” Mitch says, giving Auston a look like he’s lost his mind.

Auston can’t feel his hand. He sees the raw skin on his knuckles and the blood seeping up through the ripped skin, but everything feels numb. His brain buzzes like a fallen electrical wire, snapping from one play to the next, trying to come up with something he could have done to change the outcome.

Mitch puts a hand on Auston’s shoulder and Auston shrugs it off, says, “Fuck off, Mitchy,” in a hoarse whisper and then hits the wall again with the same fist to see if it’ll hurt this time.

It’s maybe a minute or ten, Auston doesn’t really get how time works when he feels like this -- floaty and disconnected from reality and a little bit like someone is inflating a balloon inside his chest until he can’t breathe. He keeps hitting the wall, lighter than the first time, more a tap-tap-tap of his fist. The repetition is soothing and he can’t feel his hand right now but he thinks the pain, when it comes, will probably be soothing too. 

Auston hears Freddie before he sees him. 

“Stop,” Freddie says and his tone is nothing like Mitch’s before.

Freddie says it not like Auston’s crazy or irrational or like he’s a child who needs to be placated. He says stop like Auston’s a well trained dog. A command given and received and meant to be obeyed. The balloon in Auston’s chest pops and suddenly he can breathe again.

Auston stops.

He presses his forehead against the cool brick in front of him and shivers when Freddie puts his palm on the back of Auston’s neck. The tension in his shoulders melts away immediately and Auston lifts his head from the wall and leans into Freddie’s hand.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Freddie says.

He’s not asking. 

Freddie wants to get Auston cleaned up, and Auston is going to comply. He steers Auston back into the locker room, where Auston very purposefully doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. He’s not embarrassed, exactly, but there’s something intimate in the way Freddie has his palm at the small of Auston’s back. The way he stands close behind him so that their hips bump as they walk.

There’s no one else in the showers, so Auston figures he must have been hitting the wall for a while. His hands are finally starting to ache and when he looks at them, he sees his knuckles are all red, raw and bleeding.

Freddie turns on the cold water in one of the sinks and pulls Auston in, gently moving his hands under the stream. It stings so Auston pulls back, hissing. 

“You play you pay,” Freddie says, moving them back under the water.

Their eyes meet in the mirror above the sink. Auston’s eyes look wild, but Freddie’s look normal -- steady, calm, contemplative. Auston wants to get lost in them, a different way of disconnecting than attacking the wall, but Freddie looks away, back down to Auston’s torn hands, and starts dabbing them clean with a towel. 

When he’s done, he steers Auston to the showers, turns the tap on hot and says, “Shower and then sit on that bench over there. I’ll be right back.”

Auston glances at the shower and the bench and says, “I don’t ne--”

“Shower. Bench,” Freddie says and then he leaves without waiting for Auston to do what he asked.

Auston showers and then sits on the bench.

Freddie comes back with antiseptic wipes and some antibiotic ointment. He kneels next to Auston, which makes something swoopy happen in Auston’s stomach. Auston looks at the crown of Freddie’s head where his hair swirls like a little tsunami. Freddie’s busy wiping Auston’s knuckles with the wipes, which is probably for the best because Auston kind of wants to reach out and run his fingers through Freddie’s hair. Having his hands otherwise occupied is saving him from doing something truly embarrassing.

“Sorry,” Auston says softly. His voice sounds as scraped up and raw as his knuckles look. 

“You’re fine,” Freddie says firmly, before he leans down and presses his lips to the ruined flesh over Auston’s knuckles. 

Auston’s heart skips a beat. He feels hot and cold, arousal zipping through him from his groin outward all over his body. He leans in closer, right as Freddie looks up from his hands, and there’s no way he’s not going to kiss Freddie right now. It’s like he’s the tide and Freddie is the moon’s gravitational pull, controlling Auston’s movements. 

There’s a moment of panic after Auston presses his lips to Freddie’s when Freddie doesn’t react. He doesn’t recoil, but he’s definitely not participating either. Auston pulls back, apology on the tip of his tongue, but Freddie puts his palm at the back of Auston’s neck and pulls him back in.

This is the kiss he wanted, faces tilted toward each other, Freddie’s tongue hot in his mouth followed by Freddie’s teeth sharp in his bottom lip. The bite sends little jolts up Auston’s spine and he can’t help moaning against Freddie’s lips.

Freddie pulls back and studies him with that quiet, assessing gaze and says, “Come home with me.”

He’s not asking, but Auston was never going to say no anyway.

~~~

The thing is, Auston has figured out he’s not really made for adulthood. Hockey is his thing. He’s so good at it, one of the best, and getting better all the time. When he was growing up, he could throw himself into hockey with the abandon of a person who didn’t have any responsibilities except to play and win and be the fucking best.

Now, he’s got all these-- decisions. Where to live. What to wear. What to say. When to say it. He just wants to play hockey, but being the saviour of the Toronto Maple Leafs is nothing like being the best in his Arizona youth hockey league. He has responsibilities that go beyond what he can do on the ice and he-- well, he hates it.

In the car, Freddie doesn’t ask if he wants to listen to the radio or if the heater is on too high. He turns the radio off when they get in and blasts the floor heater and waits for Auston to buckle his safety belt before he pulls out of the garage.

Auston doesn’t have a car, mostly because he doesn’t know what kind of car he wants, or where he would keep one even if he did, or how to drive on ice and snow. He also doesn’t want to have to figure out any of that out, so he rides with Mitch or gets a car service to pick him up and it’s fine.

Freddie’s car is nice. Most of the guys have slick looking sports cars or souped up trucks but Freddie has some kind of Mercedes SUV. It’s sensible in a way some of his other teammate’s cars aren’t. 

“I like your car,” Auston says, because he feels like he should say something. 

He and Freddie are friends-- really good friends, lately, after spending so much of last year figuring each other out. They usually banter, chirps that skate the edge between friendly and flirty without ever crossing over the line, but Auston figures kissing your teammate in the locker room shower pretty solidly obliterates any lines. 

“We don’t have to talk,” Freddie says and his face is doing that impassive, blank thing he does sometimes, the one that drives Auston crazy.

He hates not being able to tell what Freddie’s thinking. His stomach is a tangled mess of nerves and anxiety and he feels like he might hurl, but he still wants Freddie to kiss him again. He liked how his brain just completely shorted out when they kissed before-- the blissful buzz of desire and the way Freddie seemed to make Auston’s mind and body do whatever he wanted them to do. 

Auston puts his forehead to the cool glass and closes his eyes, breathes deep through his nose and lets it out again.

“Fuck,” Freddie mutters softly -- barely a whisper, but Auston still hears it over the hiss of the heater.

“We don’t have to do this,” Auston says, not opening his eyes because what if this time he actually _can_ read the expression on Freddie’s face and it’s rejection-- or worse, regret. “You can just take me home.”

Freddie doesn’t say anything for a long time-- seconds that stretch out like minutes or hours because Auston’s holding his breath waiting for the response.

“I want to do this,” Freddie says. “I just don’t know if you do and I don’t want to ask because I know you’re overwhelmed right now but-- I kind of need to ask.”

Auston exhales. It’s not that he _can’t_ make decisions. Sometimes he knows what he wants. He wants burgers instead of pizza. He prefers Mountain Dew if he’s going to drink a sugary soda. He likes blue jean jackets even if Mitch says they went out of style in the 80s. He’d rather play video games than watch a movie 99% of the time. He wants to go to Freddie’s house and he wants Freddie to fuck him.

It’s all the stuff he doesn’t have answers for that freak him out. All the things he’s supposed to want or be sure of that he doesn’t want or doesn’t know, that make him panic even if it’s dumb shit that doesn’t matter in the bigger scheme of things. More than anything, he hates how not knowing what he wants makes him overthink every decision he was forced to make along the way, like maybe if he’d made some other choice earlier he’d have the answers right now.

“I want to do this too,” Auston says, glancing at Freddie out of the corner of his eye.

Freddie nods once and says, “I’m going to ask if you’re sure and then I’m not going to ask again, okay?”

“Okay,” Auston says, smiling because Freddie is so cute and earnest and Auston feels more cared for right now than he has in a really long time.

“You sure?” Freddie asks, taking his eyes off the road for a second to look Auston in the face.

“I’m sure,” Auston says, fond and pleased.

Freddie reaches out and squeezes Auston’s hand where it’s resting on the center console and Auston turns his hand palm up, lacing their fingers together. They stay like that for the rest of the drive.

~~~

Freddie parks in his building’s garage. They get out together and Freddie comes around and puts his hand on the small of Auston’s back again, nudging him toward the elevator. 

Last year Freddie had an apartment, but he bought a loft downtown over the summer. The view is beautiful, and he had an interior decorator come and make it look like a real adult person lives there. It’s pretty fucking sick, but Auston doesn’t think it’s very Freddie. There’s something clinical about it, which on the surface is Freddie to a T, but underneath that calm reserve is a warm gooey center that Auston feels privileged to know exists. The apartment just feels cold.

In the elevator, they look at each other, the tension building until it feels like a physical force keeping them on either side of the car. The doors chiming open on Freddie’s floor breaks the spell, and they both snap to attention, going for the open door at the same time and laughing awkwardly when they bump shoulders. Freddie steps back and lets Auston go first, and then his hand is back, steering them down the hall to Freddie’s door.

It’s freezing inside, and Freddie immediately goes to the thermostat on the wall and fiddles with it until Auston hears the heat kick on. Now that he’s here, his nerves are back. He puts his hands in his coat pockets for lack of anything better to do and rocks back and forth on his heels while Freddie turns on a couple of lamps in the living area.

When everything is sufficiently lit, Freddie comes back for Auston. Auston’s not sure what to do at first, but Freddie simply steps into his space and tips his head back for a kiss. His palm is warm on Auston’s jaw and the other one slides up Auston’s side.

He only realizes his hands are still in his pockets because he wants to touch Freddie, but when he starts to extract them, Freddie breaks their kiss long enough to says, “No, leave them there,” before going back to kissing Auston thoroughly.

Auston flushes, heat mapping its way up his face, warming his cheeks under Freddie’s palm. He thinks he should feel embarrassed, but when he takes a moment to examine his reaction he finds that he’s just turned on. 

Freddie’s teeth nip at his chin and his neck and Auston wants to melt into the floor. He wants to hand his body over to Freddie, to put himself in the palm of Freddie’s hands and let him do whatever he wants. 

Freddie seems to read his mind, because he pushes him backward until his back hits the front door and sets his mouth back on Auston’s neck, sucking hard enough to make Auston hiss. It’s possible there’s a direct line from Freddie’s mouth to Auston’s dick, because he’s getting hard against the thigh Freddie’s worked between his legs. 

He wants to touch so bad, but he wants to be good for Freddie too and that want seems to be more immediate and necessary. He balls his hands into fists inside his pockets, rocks against Freddie’s thigh and makes needy noises while Freddie makes a mess of his neck with his teeth. 

The hand at his waist eventually works its way under Auston’s shirt. Freddie’s fingers are cold and Auston jumps at his touch, huffs out a laugh and lets his head thunk against the door. Freddie’s practically holding him up with his thigh now. They’ve been kissing forever, so long that Auston feels disconnected from reality -- slow and dumb -- like he’s had too much to drink.

“I want to get you out of these clothes,” Freddie says, rucking up Auston’s shirt enough to run his hand over Auston’s abs.

Auston shivers and asks, “Does that mean I can move my hands?”

He means to sound sarcastic, but it mostly comes out breathy and sincere. Freddie buries his face in Auston’s neck and groans, pushes his hand further up Auston’s shirt and scratches over his nipple until Auston whines and says, “Please.”

“Take your hands out of your pockets and take your coat off,” Freddie says, stepping away to kick his shoes off and set them neatly by the front door. 

Auston takes his hands out of his pockets and shrugs his coat off, handing it to Freddie when he comes back and puts his hand out for it. There’s a small coat closet by the entryway and Freddie hangs Auston’s coat inside, comes back and drops to his knees in front of Auston.

“Uhh,” Auston says, trying to form words as his entire brain blanks out like a room being plunged into darkness at the flip of a switch. 

Freddie smirks up at him and says, “I’m not going to suck your dick.” Instead, he starts on the laces of Auston’s shoes and slips them off one at a time, followed by Auston’s socks, which he neatly tucks into each shoe. When he’s done he presses a firm kiss over the bulge in Auston’s jeans and looks up again, amused at Auston’s expense before he says, “Not yet, anyway.”

Auston groans and reaches down to brush the tips of his fingers over Freddie’s bottom lip, inhaling sharply when Freddie sucks one of them into his mouth and scrapes his teeth over the pad. 

He bounds back to his feet with the agility of someone who tends goal for a living and puts Auston’s shoes next to his and says, “Let’s go to my bedroom.”

There’s not much to the loft and Auston’s been here several times before this. He got the grand tour when Freddie moved in. He knows where Freddie’s bedroom is. He’s sat on Freddie’s bed before, waiting for Freddie to change before they went out with the boys, or once, before Freddie got his TV set up in the living room, they’d watched movies together until Auston fell asleep. But he feels frozen in place right now. 

His lungs are like overfilled balloons and his chest hurts, but Freddie must sense Auston’s panic because he simply grabs Auston’s hand and leads him down the short hallway to his room.  
Once they’re inside he nudges Auston’s arms up and slips his t-shirt over his head, tossing it toward the hamper in the corner of the room. He handles the button and zipper of Auston’s jeans next, pushes them over Auston’s hips and ass and with a little bit of struggle, gets them untangled from Auston’s feet.

Auston’s in nothing but black boxers now. It’s still cold inside and his nipples are protesting, hard and so sensitive when Freddie ducks his head and sucks one of them into his mouth.

“Jesus,” Auston whines, while Freddie maneuvers them toward the bed, still hunched over and licking at Auston’s puffy nipples.

Freddie’s still fully clothed and he doesn’t do anything to change that when they get to the bed. He just pushes Auston down onto his back and covers him like a blanket, twisting around him to kiss his shoulder, and his bicep right over the lion tattoo. He runs his palm over Auston’s stomach before dipping his hand into Auston’s boxers and grabbing his dick.

Auston pants and arches up into Freddie’s grip. It’s dry, despite the fact that Auston feels like he’s been turned on and leaking since they started kissing against the door. Freddie must feel it too because he pulls his hand out, licks across his palm a couple of times and then spits before sticking his hand back down Auston’s pants.

He knows he’s not going to last like this. Freddie’s hand feels so good, warm and just a little bit on the painful side of too tight, but Auston likes it. He likes it the way he likes getting tattoos or pressing on a hockey bruise -- the good kind of pain, part of a greater pleasure. A pain you endure to get to the good stuff.  
“I’m going to come,” Auston says, voice high and strained.

“Good,” Freddie says, crawling up to kiss his mouth, hand still tight on his dick. “I want you to. Do it.”

Auston wants to do it for him. He pushes for it, bowing his body into Freddie’s solid weight, bearing down, lip caught between his own teeth until he feels his body crest and he comes in his shorts, Freddie working his come over his cock to get him through it. 

He goes boneless after, sinking into the bed and floating on the post orgasm wave. He watches Freddie through half-closed eyes as he licks Auston’s come off his fingers. It’s so hot his dick twitches feebly, and he’s 20. He could probably go again, but maybe not quite yet.

Freddie taps his hip and says, “Lift up,” as he hooks his fingers in Auston’s boxers and slides them off, throwing them toward the growing pile of Auston’s clothes. He looks at Auston’s body like it’s a puzzle he wants to solve and Auston goes without protest when he he grabs his thigh and his hip and rolls him over onto his stomach.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he says and Auston’s stomach jumps with nerves and a giddy anticipation.

He’s only done it once, in juniors with a friend he trusted and it was good but even then he didn’t want it like he does now. Just thinking about Freddie’s dick in him makes him aware of how Freddie’s dick isn’t in him _right now_. He feels empty and needy, clenching down around nothing and he makes a pained noise that comes out of nowhere.

“I know,” Freddie says, smoothing a palm over Auston’s ass. “You want it.”

Freddie sounds like he did in the locker room tonight -- all his attention focused on Auston -- somehow knowing exactly what Auston needs even when Auston doesn’t know himself. He nudges at Auston’s hip and Auston gets on his knees, ass in the air, cheek pressed to the quilt on Freddie’s bed.

“Stay just like that, sweetheart,” Freddie says sweetly and Auston’s heart thump-thump-thumps rapidly in his chest.

He feels Freddie move away. Auston’s head faces toward the closet and Freddie moves toward the bathroom so he can’t see him, but he can hear him rummaging around in drawers and cabinets.

He comes back and sets something on the bed -- lube or condoms or both. Auston hopes both but the reality is that he probably wouldn’t say anything if Freddie wanted to fuck him without them.. It makes him feel a little sick and a little thrilled at the same time-- like he’s just a body made to give someone else pleasure. Made to give Freddie pleasure.

One of the questions is answered when Auston hears the soft snick of a bottle and then Freddie’s fingers, warm and slick sliding between his cheeks. He shies away at first, a natural reaction to probing fingers where there shouldn’t be any, but Freddie puts his other hand on Auston’s hip, steadying him as he rubs the lube around Auston’s hole with the pad of his thumb.

“I’ve got you,” Freddie says steadily. “I’m going to make it so good for both of us.”

Auston wants to tell him it already is good. He feels wrung out from his orgasm, but Freddie’s fingers are sending little shock waves through him. He can feel his dick getting interested again. He didn’t think he could get hard again yet, but his cock clearly didn’t get the memo and is giving it its best shot.

Freddie keeps pushing at Auston’s rim without going inside and it’s driving Auston crazy. He pushes his ass back into Freddie’s grip and Freddie shushes him, drips more lube over Auston’s hole and pushes a finger slowly inside him. 

“Relax and breathe,” Freddie says. “Your ass is like a vice.”

Auston laughs on an exhale-- a breath he didn’t know he was holding -- and tries to relax enough to let Freddie add another finger, which he does a moment later. Then he adds a third for good measure, stretching Auston so wide that when he pulls his fingers out Auston feels so open and empty that he cries out from the loss of feeling full. 

“Please,” Auston begs, and whimpers with relief when Freddie tears a package behind him and lines himself up.

The push of Freddie’s cock is blunt and huge, a pressure Auston feels at the base of his spines, in his lungs and in his throat. It hurts and Auston wants it, chases the pain by pushing his ass back and it’s only then he realizes that Freddie is still fully clothed.

He feels the scratch of Freddie’s jeans against his ass and the hem of Freddie’s button down tickling his back. He wishes he could see them -- himself fully naked on his hands and knees with his ass in the air and Freddie only undressed enough to get his dick out and into Auston’s ass.

“Freddie,” Auston says and he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, but Freddie does.

He grabs Auston’s hips and rides him, shoving in hard and sloppy, his cockhead glancing off Austons’ prostate with every thrust. It’s enough to send currents of arousal up his spine. Enough to grow his dick from semi-hard to fully hard, curving against his stomach so that his cock bumps against his abs every time Freddie pushes inside.

Auston is nothing but a bundle of connected nerves, his ass and his dick locked in a battle of discontinuous pleasure. Neither giving him quite what he needs to push him over the edge. Auston presses his face to the bedcovers and becomes slowly aware that he’s begging, “Please,” in a low hoarse whisper over and over again.

Freddie reaches under him and takes his dick in hand, jerks him hard and fast a half dozen times, and Auston comes hard, toes curling, fingers clawing at the bed. His knees give out and he slumps sideways, causing Freddie to slip out of him.

He cries out from the loss even though everything is too much, but it doesn’t matter anyway because Freddie’s not through with him. He curls around him, both of them on their side like a quotation mark, and slides back in.

It _hurts_ but Auston also doesn’t ever want him to stop. He thinks he might even be willing to give up hockey to stay right here in this moment where Freddie is fucking him so good.

“I’m almost there,” Freddie says in his ear, teeth nipping at his lobe.

His thrusts are getting so sloppy that Auston can’t keep track of the rhythm anymore. He stops trying, disconnects from everything and lets his mind float blissfully free from his body. Freddie grinds into his ass a few more times and comes, a mournful sound punched out of his chest that Auston feels vibrating through his entire body.

Freddie’s so deep inside him, his hips still working through his orgasm and Auston knows he was right before. He’d let Freddie do this to him without the condom -- kind of wishes he had so he could see what it feels like to have Freddie’s come in him, slicking him up inside.

“Jesus Christ,” Freddie says, biting down on the back of Auston’s neck. “Next time. We’ll do that next time.”

Auston’s confused for a second and then flushes -- embarrassed and overwhelmed when he realizes he must have spoken out loud. It’s a little strange to have done what they just did and still feel shy about the shit that rattles around inside his brain.

“I wasn’t supposed to say that out loud,” Auston admits, hiding his face against the bed.

Freddie pulls out of him slowly and Auston misses the fullness and the heat of Freddie’s body as he rolls away and gets up to go to the bathroom. He comes back with a warm washcloth and cleans Auston’s ass, rolls him over to wipe the come off his stomach and then tosses the washcloth on the pile of Auston’s clothes before _finally_ getting undressed himself.

Auston watches him shed his clothes unashamedly, looks where he didn’t get to before. He thinks about sitting on Freddie’s thighs and riding him. Or sitting on Freddie’s face while he Freddie eats him out. There are a million things he wants to do to Freddie and for Freddie but right now he mostly wants Freddie to kiss him.

“Come here,” Auston says as seductively as he can.

Granted, it’s not that seductive, but Freddie clearly likes him. He’s clearly attracted to him and Auston’s splayed out wantonly across Freddie’s bed like a buffet for one. Freddie comes easily, eases down next to him and kisses him, deep and sweet.

“Feel better?” Freddie asks, kissing along Auston’s jaw to his ear before taking Auston’s lobe between his teeth. 

Auston completely forgot about the game -- about his mini panic attack or his anxiety over what he could or couldn’t have done better on the ice. He feels pretty damn good, and even if it’s just endorphins from really fucking good sex, Auston figures it’s not a terrible way to get his mind off things he can’t change.

“Yeah,” Auston says, smiling at Freddie.

He doesn’t know if this is it -- if he’s supposed to leave now or if Freddie wants him to stay. He doesn’t want to ask, either, because he wants to stay. Freddie’s warm and solid and Auston hasn’t felt this genuinely happy in a long time.

“You think you’re feeling good now, but wait until you get a load of my pancakes tomorrow,” Freddie says playfully, nudging Auston over so they can lay side by side on the bed. “They’re going to blow your mind.”

“We’ll see,” Auston says but he’s pretty sure if Freddie’s half as good at pancakes as he is at sex, Auston’s going to be thoroughly impressed.

Freddie leans over and kisses him solidly on the mouth, flips off the lamp next to him and says, “Now go to sleep, Matts.”

Auston closes his eyes.


End file.
